


Andromeda

by PetraTodd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Death References, Destiny, Drug Use, F/M, Fantasy, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Historical References, Reincarnation, Romance, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-05 10:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetraTodd/pseuds/PetraTodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By age seven, Sherlock Holmes knew two things with absolute certainty: that somewhere out there in the world he had a soulmate, and that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

By age seven, Sherlock Holmes knew two things with absolute certainty: that somewhere out there in the world he had a soulmate, and that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with them.

He huddled behind the ornate sofa with a pile of rocks in his parents' parlor, watching them fight. They'd started before he got home from school, and they'd continued on into the evening. They always fought, they always made up, and the only thing that was different this time was that it was his fault. He picked at the scab on his knobby knee and wished he had a magnifying glass handy to take a closer look at it.

"It was just a bit of fun, Libby. She doesn't matter. You're my soulmate, I'm not leaving you, I swear it!"

Sherlock pulled up his sleeve to study the dark lettering of a girl's name on his forearm, the mark he had been born with. He frowned at the name, and yanked his sleeve down. Growing tired of his parents' theatrics, Sherlock stacked the rocks into another tower, calculating the angle to maximize the height of the construction.

"It's not fair, I can't even look at another man or it makes me ill. How can you do this to me, Sid? How?"

"Two months with the Tokyo office, love, it was lonely. Just a bit of company. You never would have known…"

Sherlock felt eyes on him and he tensed. He smacked the pile of stones aside hard enough to slice his palm and sent the rocks scattering across the hardwood floor, scratching the polished surface. He looked up and found his father, with a face so like his own, peering down at him over the sofa back.

"One day you'll find your Margaret, and you'll understand, Sherlock. Bodies are merely transport; there is far too much fuss about it. The bond is more than flesh. You'd do well to remember that and not interfere with people's relationships."

His father's cold face pulled back and Sherlock heard him storm down the hallway and out the back door, into the night. Sherlock sucked at the cut on his hand and sulked. His mother rushed over and pressed a napkin again the blood. Sherlock winced and glared out the window at the moon.

"If he didn't want anyone to know, he should have gotten rid of his coat and shoes. Or he shouldn't have taught us how to _see like him_." His jaw jutted stubbornly and he did his best not to notice the tears flowing down his mother's face.

* * *

When she was seven years old, Molly Hooper taught herself how to read the stars. She fell in love with constellations during an accelerated sciences course for selected classmates, and it took hold in her dreams. Each student received a planisphere, and at night before bed, she would spin the wheel, match the dates, and find her place in the night sky.

The letters of her soulmate's name sprawled across her right arm like a collection of stars, refusing to obey the tidy order of things. Molly's mum sighed and laughed over the marking.

"Why so overwhelming? Such a strong mark…It's not a short name, but not that long either. My name has more letters and your mark is only two inches wide," she commented to Molly's dad.

He turned the page on his Stephen King novel, and shrugged. "When I was a boy, I think half my arm was covered by 'Margaret.' She'll grow bigger; it'll look smaller. And maybe he's got a great bloody big Margaret on his arm too." He smirked into his coffee and winked at her mum.

Molly wrinkled her nose. "I'm _Molly_."

Her mum pretended to be offended. "Ohhh, something wrong with our name?"

She hugged her mum, and shook her head. "No! It's just…not me." Summoning her courage, she asked, "Do you think he'll be strong like his mark?"

Hiding a smile, her mother squeezed her shoulders and kissed Molly's forehead. "Sweetie, with a ghastly name like Sherlock, he's bound to be stronger than most."

* * *

In the rare moments when his father was home and relaxed, and his mother not wrapped up in her clubs, he would eavesdrop on their secret whispers, the memories of past lives that all bondmates shared.

His mother's fond remembrance of their wedding in Rome, before it burned. Them both recalling their exploration of the forests along the Allegheny River as a fur trapping couple, not long before the Seven Years War. His father's story of watching her give a fiery speech at a union hall, in turn-of-the-century New York City.

Separately, their memories of past lives were sparse, but together, they formed a cohesive narrative of finding each other in the world, and going forth stronger as one unit. When his parents reunited peaceably, Sherlock understood in those fleeting moments that there was a rhythm and purpose to the bonding, far beyond bodies.

But those times were so ephemeral, the glimpses into their shared past so far removed from Sherlock's life. He witnessed the pain of his father's sexual indiscretions year after year, and the distracting intensity of his parents' union.

His father would become agitated during his long business trips and seek comfort in other women's arms when he was overseas too long.

His mother would become nauseated and have migraines when her bondmate was away on business for weeks on end.

"Bring me another pill, sweetie, and a glass of water," she'd plead to Sherlock. He knew how to read all the bottles correctly in the medicine cabinet long before he understand that other people's mothers didn't do the same thing.

By the time he was sixteen years old, Sherlock knew with crystal-clear certainty that there was no place in his life for the madness of love.

Many people never found their bondmate at all, he reasoned to himself, so it was proven that meeting their supposedly destined match wouldn't ruin his life. He would be alone always, but he was used to that.

One bonded pair discovered each other in a home for the elderly, and spent only five years together before the husband passed away. Some people fell in love young and denied the bondmatch when their paths finally did cross later in life. It was frowned on and eyebrow-raising, but legally every citizen was still free to choose. In theory, you could life after life without finding your match.

The soulmark was just a print in the flesh, a birthmark that caused heartache and false hope. The metaphysical nature of it disgusted and baffled Sherlock.

He sneered at his classmates falling in love around him, groping each other and squealing in happiness until their fickle teenage attentions wandered off.

_Margaret will go on without me,_ he insisted inwardly. _She'll find some boring lug and make happy babies and she won't have to live in the past. Or be connected to this damned family._

It was the best thing he could offer her really, when one considered it.

Even so, there was a twinge in Sherlock's chest when he envisioned his Margaret giving her heart to someone else. He was in the habit of tracing the letters of her name on his arm whenever he was deep in thought. When he laid in bed at night, frustrated by a puzzle and restless, the ritual soothed him. In some ways, she had been the only safe constant in his life since he first learned to read the neat letters on his arm.

The night before he moved out of his parents' home, he was plagued by fleeting visions of working steadily in a lab with a woman by his side. She was about forty years old, and her dark dress was covered by a dusty apron. She burned brightly with discovery, even in the haze of a dream. Her notebooks glowed in her hands with an eerie green light. She was warm and intelligent and her no-nonsense expression softened whenever her blue eyes turned to him across the desk.

She smiled at him, and then he felt time blur and slide away, her now-sorrowful face disintegrating. He felt a great crushing blow to his skull, as though something heavy and terrible had come down and cracked his head open. His mind shattered, and the darkness swallowed him whole.

Sherlock sat up in his bed, shaking with cold sweat.

_So that's what it's like to die._

He swallowed and willed away the queasiness that rolled through him.

He jumped out of bed and dug his cigarettes out of his trouser pocket. Fingers shaking, he managed to light the cigarette and inhale. He sucked down the smoke, coughing like an amateur. He steeled himself using the meditation techniques he was reading about, but his fingers shook with every drag.

The woman who had stood and gazed on him with love was his wife, his partner, his soulmate; and the crushing blow had _killed_ him. A horse-drawn carriage, he'd wager, based on the foul scent of the street and the width of the wheel he felt cracking his skull in the memory.

He'd dreamed of one of his past lives. He knew it with a certainty that tore through the shields he'd been building since he was seven years old. And if the past life visions existed, then so did Margaret.

She was real, and he was doomed to fail her, by being himself. Dying wasn't so bad, but disappointing the girl who was destined to love him made him feel like vomiting.

He paced for an hour in the dead of night, glaring at the moon for shining when he wanted to brood in the dark. Patterns in the stars leapt out at him but the names escaped him. Astronomy wasn't very useful, and fanciful names had no function at all. He sat at his desk, furiously deleting the dreams from his brain until dawn.

But he failed. The unconscious couldn't be picked away at, he'd found. It wasn't data; it was _him_.

* * *

Well into his first term at uni, dreams of the French woman and their nineteeth-century laboratory recurred until he met a clever fellow named Ralph at the pub.

Ralph was brilliant with chemistry, detested all romantic connections and had discovered the previous year that cocaine did a fantastic job of short-circuiting the unwanted visions.

Sherlock bought his first vial, and never looked back.

* * *

The mark on Molly's inner arm darkened as she grew older, and by the time she was sixteen, was inky black.

"I've never seen one so dark," her mother gossiped with her friends. "He must be close, in London even. A good match. Why else would it be that way?"

Molly shrugged off her mother's superstitions. Her mum was a romantic; her husband and bondmate had grown up down the street from her, and was the only male she'd had eyes for since she was twelve years old.

"They're still talking about setting up a national registry of names, so they'll be easier to find, but the opposition has blocked the proposal in the House of Commons," their neighbor remarked. "Complaints about privacy. Too bad, there can't be many people with a name like the one on her arm."

Her mum nodded vigorously. "Darn right. Molly's got me hooked up on the web now. I searched the name on the computer when she was at school, but nothing came up. Suppose it was too much to hope he'd have a website of his own if he's her age."

Hearing the conversation in the kitchen while hiding out in her room, Molly giggled. She flipped through the uni pamphlets scattered over her plaid quilt and hummed. It was a year before she could apply, but she'd been fantasizing about being a doctor lately and wanted to know what prerequisites the best schools looked for.

"It's too soon to worry about never meeting my bondmate…or about meeting them tomorrow." Molly said aloud to reassure herself. Her stomach clenched at the thought. The never knowing was the worst part.

It's not that she wasn't desperate to see the face of the boy whose threads of fate intertwined with hers. She wanted to believe and to understand the peeks into the past that bled into her sleeping dreams. But she wanted to meet him at the _proper_ time, like in the novels she borrowed from her friends and read under false covers. She wanted to finish schooling, have lots of adventures, and then meet the man who would share her memories, past and future.

_I just need a little more time,_ she thought, peering out the window at the night sky. The familiar arrangement of the stars soothed her. She turned up the volume on her radio to drown out her mother's voice in the other room. _A few more years. That's all I need. Give me time, and it will be perfect when our paths finally do cross._

* * *

She was twenty-six and Molly Hooper was starting to think that maybe she had wished too emphatically for enough time. She had studied archeology at uni and gone on a dig, taught English in Thailand for a year, visited the Taj Mahal with her parents, and was on track to finish her medical studies a year early.

She was almost ready, and her Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

And then one day he was.

It was the day he died.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains drug use and mentions of death
> 
> Thanks as always to Lexie for the beta <3

The day Sherlock died, he had been awake for nearly two days.

He'd been racing around London chasing down leads on a neat little puzzle. He wasn't being paid for the case, but the challenge of solving the murder of a coke supplier was marginally satisfying. The man had been locked in his own vault at the time of his gruesome death, with no apparent escape route. The client who brought him the case was Sherlock's dealer, the dead man a connection of his. If Sherlock brought him the murderer within three days, fifty percent of his debts would be wiped clean.

Thirty hours after being tossed the case by Ericson, Sherlock turned up on his doorstep with a battered photograph and a black eye.

"He was informing to the Met, you imbecile. Be glad Devaney removed him after discovering that fact. Your rival in _recreational_ sales has done you a rather good turn on accident. His man at the security company got him in and out of the vault. Child's play. _Boring._ I expect the Met has enough to hand you over for the Queen's justice, since you were sloppy enough to trust an informant for months." Sherlock wiped the blood away from his mouth and stuffed the photo in Ericson's hands. "My deductions _should_ be sufficient, but trust is so tricky. There's your proof."

The stout man studied the photo, a rough Polaroid of his dead cohort chatting with two NSY detectives in an alley. "Fair enough. Come inside for your payment."

Sherlock shook his head, anxious to be off. "Wipe the chit clean, we agreed."

" _Half_ -clean," Ericson smirked. "But since you were so bloody fast, I've got a bonus for you. Something special from the States. Dina'll get a packet ready for ya." He clapped Sherlock's arm.

Ericson's girlfriend waved from inside, and Sherlock saw the promise of something white and pure in her unnaturally bright eyes. His mouth watered and he hesitated. "Only for a moment."

Ericson smiled crookedly. "Sure sure. I'll get it for ya."

Sherlock collected his bonus and left. Using at his dealer's place was addict behavior and he was still better than _that_. He had come to rely on the white powder more and more to keep deeper emotions and the soulmate dreams at bay. He wasn't using the drug for fun, like some piece of human trash, he told himself. He was trying to short-circuit the inherently flawed chemistry of his brain that dictated that need for _her,_ the other half, the one he didn't- couldn't need.

_I'm not a junkie, for christ's sake._

Some days he actually believed it.

Night had fallen. Sherlock took a taxi back to his flat, prepped a line and snorted it down with precision. It took ten seconds to realize that something was terribly wrong.

The slight burn didn't mellow into the usual high but intensified into a scorching pain in his head. He cursed his stupid greed in trusting Ericson's generosity. He managed to dial 999 before the overwhelming hammering of his heart drove him to his knees.

He crawled toward the wall and pulled himself up by the window- and collapsed again. He sprawled on his back, the mobile falling from his shaking fingers. He mumbled something that might've been his address by the fallen phone. His heart raced, sweat pouring from his brow and his breath came labored. He threw his head back, gasping for air and trying to cry out a word.

_M-_

He was only dimly aware of the spinning stars of the night sky as his heart stopped-

-and he died.

* * *

Returning from dinner with her mate Surya who worked in A&E, Molly heard a man's bellowing before she was halfway down the hall.

The A&E was bustling with activity already, victims from a fire filling the rooms. Not a bed was unoccupied, but the sounds of one angry young fellow drowned out them all with his insults.

Molly and her friend had popped over to the shop across the street to stock up on Quavers to tide them through the long night shift. Molly had woken up with a terrible headache that morning and needed snacks to stave off a worsening migraine, and for Surya, the full moon always brought out the worst at the A&E.

"I can find a good vein in the dark," the sneering voice shouted. "And you lot can't manage it with a team of supposed experts. Give me the goddamned needle, I'll do it myself."

Surya groaned as they nudged their way through the crowded waiting room. "I know I said this is the job I wanted, but every month at this time I wish I was down in the morgue with you, Mols."

Clattering sounds of metal hitting the floor filled the hallway. Molly laughed softly, and Surya groaned.

"Corpses don't slap you when you take blood, do they."

"Hardly ever," Molly said with a grin. "Once rigor mortis wears off, they're very pliable and easy to work with."

"Corpse humor. This is why the men I fix you up with don't call back." Surya wrinkled her nose, and fixed her ponytail, securing the dark strands tighter into her hair tie. "Sod it- check on him please? You owe me for the thing with the guy from Oncology that time. It's turned into a madhouse over dinner, and I've got a full chart of higher priority patients now with the fire."

"I don't know, Sur…"

"Oh come on, he just needs a talk-down. No real work. The nurse in there is hopeless. I hardly blame the patient. Help her calm him down?"

Molly hesitated and checked her watch. She wasn't due back in the morgue for twenty minutes, and she did owe her friend. Surya drew an extra pair of gloves from the box and stuffed it in her hands.

"Alright, why not. It's nice to mingle with the living once in a while," Molly said cheerfully. If anything, it would remind her of why it was so lovely to hide away down among the dead.

* * *

Molly plastered what she hoped was a pleasant smile on her face and stuck her head into the room. "Hi Paula!" She nodded to the night nurse. Turning to the patient, she asked, "Is there a particular problem here, or are you averse to have your blood taken in general?"

Molly took stock of the patient, noticing the painful thinness of his legs beneath the pale sheet, and the hollowness of his chest. His long body was cricket-like, bent in the uncomfortable hospital bed. His tousled hair was in need of a good trimming. When he brushed it back impatiently, she realized his eyes were tilted rather curiously like a cat's.

"I have an aversion to stupidity. Is there a medication one may take to avoid running into that? It seems to be rampant here." The voice that had been terrorizing the A&E belonged to a surprisingly young man, in his midtwenties like her.

His head was turned toward Molly, showing off a spectacular set of cheekbones. The dark brown curls drifted over his face, covering his eyes from her sight, but she had the sense that he was drinking her in, assessing her.

"Right, I see you're a…not a.. fan of people…" Molly grabbed at the chart while the tired and impatient nurse looked at her with arms crossed. She saw the challenge loud and clear in the other woman's eyes: _If I can't handle this annoying arsehole, I doubt you can, kid._

"I'm sorry you've had a bad experience so far, mister um," Molly flipped through the chart hurriedly. "Holmes. Sher-." She blinked, certain she must be imagining it. Every noise in the room seemed magnified a hundredfold. "Sherl-"

"Sherlock. Old family name. Unusual but most people can pronounce it. Judging by your experience and education, it's shocking you can't grasp a simple eight-letter name." His voice was cool and amused. "You work in the morgue, I see. The scent is particular. Why are you- oh, a favor for a friend. That's _nice._ Well, you can leave. You're not needed."

* * *

_Cocaine…laced with heroin…impure…overdose…malnutrition…self-administe red….flatlined…police report…neighbor….cardiac…stable condition._

Molly stared at the chart, the important words jumping out at her. She tried to comprehend but her dreams were bleeding around her. How many Sherlocks could there be? How many around her age, living in London? It had to be him. Abusing drugs and hateful to those around him. What sort of man had the fates chosen for her? What did it say about her?

She had to know. There was only one way to be sure.

"Paula." Her voice came out a soft squeak. She cleared her throat and spoke again. "Paula." Better, she told herself. "I think I can come to a reasonable compromise with Sherlock here but I'd like to speak with him alone for a few minutes. With you outside the room, for security's sake, of course," she added. "We don't need to restrain you, do we, Sherlock?"

"No," he replied. "Since they confiscated my cigarettes, I won't be going anywhere."

Paula's eyebrows rose, but she threw her hands in the air. "Fine. Right outside the door. This is going to be one of those nights, I can tell."

The door closed, and Molly felt her stomach tighten into a ball of knots.

She set the chart down on the tray and rolled up her sleeves. "This isn't how I meant to do this. How I planned if this ever happened. I had a speech- I had thought- But I think perhaps I should be honest-"

"Your name is Molly Hooper."

She jumped and looked up.

Sherlock rolled his blue-green eyes. His thin shoulders sunk into the bed and he shifted to look out the window. "It says so on your name badge. A stranger who suddenly exposes their forearm is typically a soul seeker wanting to know if someone's mark matches; it's standard. But your name is Molly. My soul mate is named Margaret. Not Molly."

Molly blushed and felt the knot in her belly tighten. "You knew just by my behavior like that- and you knew before that I worked in the morgue based on the smell? It doesn't say that on my badge. I don't smell like a morgue. Do I?" She tried not to sniff.

He shrugged. "Chemicals, not decomposition. I make deductions based on the data presented."

"That's fascinating." Molly smiled. It really was very intriguing. He was quite clever then, despite the drugs. Maybe there was a reason for it, maybe there was hope….

 _You're fooling yourself,_ she chided herself. Her heart ached. _He needs serious rehabilitation. This is not a new drug habit._

"Do you ever make mistakes, Sherlock? With your deductions?" She fiddled with her sleeves, and slipped a finger under the fabric. She slid her thumb over the place where she knew his name branded her.

"No. Well, rarely." He abruptly jerked back toward her. His quicksilver eyes narrowed. He searched her face again. She felt him taking in her neat brown ponytail, her brown eyes and her small hands, strong from years of scalpel-handling. She watched his eyes follow her arm, her hand, her thumb moving under her sleeve….

And she watched him swallow hard.

He began to turn away.

_No. I won't let you._

Molly yanked her sleeve up.

Sherlock's eyes wandered across the wall casually to the calendar as though it had just taken great interest for him.

"Sherlock? Look at me, please?"

Molly stepped close to the bed, and for the first time, touched her soulmate.

* * *

A warm thrill of electricity rode from her fingers into his arm and it was all he could do not to haul her onto the bed, into his lap, to kiss her senseless.

Instead he stared at her hand like it was a spider and said, "Yes, Miss Hooper?"

"What does it say on my arm?"

There it was, laid out unavoidably in darkest marks. She was irrevocably his, no one could mistake that, and in that primal corner of his mind, the one that had always understood and wanted it, he was glad for it. His name sprawled over her inner arm from elbow to wrist, and he bit the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.

"It's a name. Could be some other bloke. Not my problem."

Her brown eyes burned with annoyance and he was glad to see the spark of temper. She had spirit then, despite the calm demeanor she presented. Good.

 _Not good,_ he thought. _You can't keep her. Bad for brain work._

"Can I see your arm, please?"

It was a formality. The hospital gown exposed his skin. He only had to turn his arm slightly over and he'd be lost. Lost to her…

"Molly is rarely a nickname for Margaret."

"Mmhm," she said, smiling. Her eyes warmed. She smoothed her fingers over his arm. "Please?"

He didn't know if it was the weakness of the overdose or if that was just an excuse for giving into his base human instinct. He rolled his arm over, exposing the soft skin of his inner arm, with Margaret neatly spelled out over three inches of flesh.

Molly's eyes glittered. "Thank you, Sherlock. This is difficult. And strange. I never thought it would be like this. Um, in hospital. We can get help. I know people who can help."

"Oh for God's sake, I don't need another person trying to _fix_ me," Sherlock sneered. He yanked his arm from her grasp.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's habit. I'm used to taking care of things. I don't know what to do." Molly reached out and stroked his arm, tracing the letters of her birth name in wonder.

Sherlock frowned.

"Sorry, am I hurting you?"

"No." On the contrary, her fingers on his arm were sending warm electrical pulses through his body. He shivered with the force of it. "I don't usually like people _handling_ me." His eyes narrowed at Molly and her hand stopped. "No, you can…continue." Her fingers drew the sticks and arches of her name until his body buzzed with mellow energy and he felt almost light-headed with relief. "Huh."

"What?"

"A minor experiment. I've read that soulmatches had an effect on cortisol production in skin to skin contact in these types of situations."

Instead of being offended as he assumed she would be, Molly giggled. "Oh. Alright. What journal was that in?"

"Dunno. Binned it ages ago." Sherlock watched her hands travel over his inner arm. The warmth of her contact seemed to be spreading. "That would explain why I'm not as, you might say, agitated, as I was a moment ago."

"It's amazing." Molly beamed. "Sherlock, I'm not sure where to go from here, but can we- can I hug you? For a start."

His eyebrows rose in mock-horror. "Whatever would Nurse Paula say?"

She smiled mischievously. "Oh, no one likes her very much anyway."

Molly hopped on the edge of the bed and hugged Sherlock before he could change his mind. He was still weak, but her enthusiasm was oddly hard to resist.

He found himself wondering if he could get used to it. Panic rose in his gut. He couldn't. He didn't want to.

His arms came up gingerly behind her and clasped her tight. His face came to rest in the crook of her neck and he realized that she didn't smell much like chemicals that close up. Under the smells of hospital were scents of lemon soap and floral potpourri. She used an orange-scented cleaner at home, but preferred unscented hair products. The bouquet of citrus smelled of home, with an undernote of vanilla- he wondered if she'd been baking before her shift. He nuzzled at her neck for a deeper whiff, and Molly sighed, relaxing into his arms deeper, squeezing him tighter.

Lost in the newness of holding each other, neither realized that the door had opened until a dry voice cut through the heated silence.

"My, my, brother. If I'd realized you were prepared to accept Miss Hooper, I'd have introduced you sooner."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lexie and Clare for the beta <3

His brother's smug voice sliced through the tenuous connection. Sherlock's head jerked up and Mycroft's eyes met his with laser-precision. His brother's mouth curled into a smirk and his gaze turned to Molly.

Sherlock realized she was halfway in his lap, with her legs dangling over the edge of the bed. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittering. Her pulse flickered against his fingers, her breaths came faster, her lips parted-

 _Arousal,_ he realized. He was intrigued. How would her heart rate alter with different touches? He'd never considered that. He shook himself inwardly from that line of thought. _If Mycroft hadn't barged in, how far would this have gone?_

Sherlock steeled himself and drew the familiar cold calm over him. He settled his hands firmly over Molly's shoulders and removed her from his lap. She jumped to standing, laughing nervously.

"Right! I was just checking…the patient…he um…sorry, did you call me Miss Hooper?" Molly's brow wrinkled in confusion. Her eyes darted between the two men. "Have we met?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I have a friend who works at Barts and the unusual name on your arm has been remarked upon." Sherlock sneered at the mention of a 'friend.' One of Mycroft's little informants, no doubt.

"There's no other person named Sherlock in England, to my knowledge. An old family name, like my own. Mycroft Holmes." He tipped his head toward her. "Apologies for the intrusion. I had no wish to ruin the first meeting between my brother and his soulmate."

Mycroft smiled pleasantly at Molly, and if Sherlock could have shot his brother dead where he stood, he would have.

* * *

_God, he must think I am so unprofessional!_ Molly thought. _Crawling all over his sick brother in a hospital bed._

A thought struck Molly and she ran to the door. She stuck her head outside and saw Nurse Paula sitting on a chair, flipping through a chart disinterestedly. Paula looked up with a raised eyebrow.

"Everything's fine! We're just having a chat with the patient's brother." She hurriedly shut the door. "Right. So you knew about me."

"Yes, I confess I've known for some time. But you know why Sherlock is here. You've read his chart."

Sherlock's jaw jutted and his fists clenched the bed rail.

Molly glanced at him and nodded briefly.

"He wasn't ready to be involved with any woman, and most certainly not a quality young woman like yourself. You deserve better."

"Sod off, Mycroft. Why are you here?" Sherlock pulled himself back up to sitting and threw his long legs over the edge of the bed. He glared at his brother, and Molly found herself wondering what had caused such enmity between the brothers. The grudge between them was obviously longstanding. She shifted uncomfortably in her place, standing between the two men.

"Ericson and Devaney. You were careless."

Sherlock's left eyebrow rose. He frowned for a second and then his brow smoothed.

"They've been removed? Mysteriously no doubt, with little interference from the Yard who were glad to have the case off their hands, I'm sure. Will this be blamed on someone else or did they quietly vanish?"

Mycroft's eyes flitted to Molly and back to Sherlock. The silence stretched out, an unspoken conversation carrying on between them.

Sherlock nodded and slumped back onto his bed, his energy apparently giving out.

 _It's amazing he's been up this long, after the last twenty-four hours,_ Molly thought. _He's only conscious through sheer force of will at this point, and I was in his bloody lap a minute ago._

The shadows under his eyes seemed to darken, though it was likely his blackened eye getting worse before the healing would begin. Now that Sherlock had fallen silent again, he looked younger but with the jaded edge he had worked so hard to perfect. He stared at the droning machines by his bedside, and chewed on his full bottom lip in thought. Molly approached the bed and tentatively laid her palm over his tense hand. His fingers were cool under hers at first, but the frisson of warm energy sparked as it had before. Sherlock turned to her, and she again felt the shiver of awareness, of _knowing_ him.

His bluish-green eyes sought hers out, and his hand rolled over to clasp hers. Feeling emboldened by his acceptance, Molly slid her hand further up his arm to trace her fingers over the letters of her birth name. His pale fingers tickled the skin of her forearm, finding his name in the expanse of her flesh.

His face softened, and she felt a drop of hope.

"This has all been a bit much, I think. I really _really_ want to talk to you more. I know it's bad timing. I think maybe I should go? Just for now. And let you two talk." She glanced back at Mycroft. "I can come back later- no, tomorrow, actually because you should sleep. Tomorrow morning would be good. Would that be alright?"

"I think that's an excellent idea," Mycroft said. He brushed a nonexistent piece of lint off his coat and looked at his brother. "These things should be taken rather slowly, even in ideal circumstances, and this is hardly that."

"Get out." Sherlock's voice was hard.

"Sorry?" Molly flinched.

"Not you. _Him."_

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I'll be waiting outside. We need to speak about Mummy once you've said your goodbyes with Miss Hooper, regardless of your feelings toward me. It's hardly fair to punish Mummy, now is it."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away on the pillow. " _Fine._ If you must."

Mycroft sighed dramatically and exited the room.

* * *

Molly grimaced. "Is he always so-"

"Yes."

"But I didn't finish my sentence."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Is he always so cold? So adversarial? So manipulative? So imperious? So controlling? Yes, any of those. Was it chocolate chip biscuits?"

Molly shook her head in confusion. She nearly laughed. "What?!"

"Your scent. Doesn't match morgue smells or cleaning supplies or personal products. Vanilla in the recipe certainly." Sherlock sat in in the bed and tugged on her sleeve, pulling her close.

"Oh. Um, just vanilla sugar ones actually. My mum's recipe. She used to make them for my dad before he passed away."

Sherlock leaned over the rail, steadying himself on Molly's arm. She smiled softly and wrapped her arms around his neck carefully, avoiding putting pressure on his body. He tilted his head and pressed his nose to the crook of her neck.

"Ah there it is. Vanilla, and sugar, and butter, no chocolate though. Should've noticed that. Would have if I weren't ill."

She laughed. "You have a very peculiar skill set, has anyone ever told you that?"

"They seldom tell me anything else, Molly Hooper," he rumbled against her throat. "Your parents, were they a soul match?"

"Yes." Molly ruffled a hand through his curls. They were soft, despite everything he'd been through. She suspected vanity would press him to keep certain habits up, no matter how bad his drug habit had gotten. "My parents grew up together, same neighborhood. There was never any question of being with someone else. They always knew. They were happy, even when times were rough like when Dad was out of work. Some people think that's not exciting, but I think it's nice, being able to plan your life together. Of course it was simple for them. Common names. No Sherlocks for them."

Sherlock lifted his head and arched an eyebrow at her. Molly grinned mischievously.

"If their names were common, how did they know for sure?"

"The usual way, silly," Molly chided him. "When they were old enough, Mum grabbed Dad, dragged him under a mulberry tree, and snogged his brains out. They lit up like Christmas, and their soul marks told them all they needed to know. That was that. Didn't your parents talk about this stuff?"

Sherlock's face froze and Molly sensed she had hit upon landmine unintentionally. His voice was chillier when he responded. The frown line between his eyes formed anew.

"No. My family was different. Not every soulmatch is perfect. People are flawed. Some cheat, they lie, they steal, they hurt."

"That's true," Molly agreed. Her hands settled on his shoulders loosely. "But our soul matches can help us be the best we can be. In the end, only a person can choose what he or she will be." She made a face. "That's a little more philosophical than I wanted to get before saying goodbye tonight."

"You have to get back to the morgue. They'll wonder where you are, though a soul finding is a good excuse."

"Yes it is." Molly smiled brightly. "There is one more thing though. And Mycroft be damned, he can wait another minute."

"I like that attitude." Her hands at his neck played with his hair and he was amazed to find how comfortable and somehow familiar the intimate action was. He usually hated being touched by people. The sensory stimulation was too much, but with her it was just…right. Whenever it started to become too much, he noted, she instinctively pulled away without him saying anything. A side effect of the soul mark? He made a mental note to investigate.

"What else?"

"I just wanted to…" Molly stared at him with big brown eyes for a long moment before leaning in to brush a kiss over his cheek. By the time Sherlock reacted, she had pulled back, stuck her hands in her pockets and was headed for the door. "I'll come visit tomorrow and we can sort things out then."

Warmth bloomed where her lips pressed on his cheek. Sherlock stared, his mind utterly blank. She had kissed him chastely but he'd been certain she meant to kiss him much more than she had. In fact, if there'd been a mulberry tree in the vicinity, he suspected he would've found himself dragged up against it the way Mr. Hooper had found himself a generation ago.

If their bodies warmed together when they lightly touched their soul marks, he wondered what would happen when they did much more.

He was pondering that with fascination when the door swung open and Mycroft reentered. Without giving Sherlock a chance, he launched into his speech.

"I'm sure you'd like to have a go at me for the situation with Miss Hooper but that must wait. You'll be moved to a clinic first thing in the morning. Your physicians have approved it." He smiled tightly. "You'll have the best care, private doctors, and the emotional entanglement of meeting a soulmatch right now is a nightmare on top of everything. Now that you've met Molly, the memories and feelings will intensify and your first instinct will be to run back to cocaine or whatever else you can get your hands on." Mycroft's eyes were ice cold.

"You don't know that." But he did. Sherlock hated himself for the defeat in his voice. If only he wasn't so damned physically weak still.

Sherlock pondered Molly, the way she had bravely kissed him even though he must've been an intimidating mess from the moment she walked in the room and found her soulmate was- well, him. Molly who smelled of chemicals and sugar and hospital, and made his body hum with warmth. He thought he had erased every faint memory from the dreams years ago, but there was a look of understanding and gentle humor in her that haunted him. She had walked into his room and undone his self-control with minimal effort. He remembered her.

Nausea gripped his stomach. He seized the bed rail.

"I'll go. On one condition."

Mycroft's eyebrow rose.

"Molly will not know where I'm going. Make sure that information isn't left in my files here. There will be no further contact."

His brother's brow furrowed for the briefest of moments before smoothing out. "Done."

* * *

_Night fell. The boy sat on the rock and awaited his fate._

_The chunk of granite, slimy with high tide's leavings, was uneven and provided only a narrow seat for him. He was a young man, truly, with his father's long legs and far-seeing eyes. He saw his mother's lantern burning on the beach as she mourned for him already, knowing the creature would rise from the sea to claim him for sacrifice. For the cruel spring, for the gods, for the king who demanded the most beautiful and clever youth to be given over to the waves. The water would come and swallow him whole._

_So they said. The boy had his doubts. He doubted everything he could not see for himself or find proof of in his father's stacks of papyrus. That was where the trouble began. He could not believe and so he learned. His father was proud, oh he was so proud of his brilliant son. He had taught him the scribe's skill well. But the king was petty and his father's boasts coast dearly._

_The boy shuddered. His courage faltered. The light on the shore died with his mother's hopes for his survival. The winds on the sea rose and rattled the chain that trapped him on the rock._

_Spray from the waves soaked his thin clothes and he wondered if the cold would take him before any monster would. Perhaps that was the truth of these sacrifices to a creature that no soul in the village had ever seen. When he was a boy, each spring he would hide in the caves by the beach to catch a glimpse of the doomed soul chosen for the spring bounty being led to the rock. He would sit amongst the barnacles and rotting oars, and wait with excitement churning in his belly. It never occurred to him it would be his turn someday._

_The sky overhead was black and the stars burned white and cold. The boy rested on one elbow, uncomfortably bent on the jagged rock. He stared upward and for the first time, it occurred to him to ask the gods for help._

_He was not a boy for prayers. His father taught him to rely on his intellect and his skills, the papyrus and the inks. But now he threw his head back, and for the first time since he was a small child, cried out for the gods' aid, pleading with the stars._

_The stars blinked back silently._

_The boy dropped his face into his hands, the elegant fingers that once so beautifully created scrolls of learning and wisdom under his father's watchful eye. Now they were only a bowl for his tears._

_He wept for knowing that the gods didn't care, not for his life or any of the youths who had died before him on the rock. His pride fell away, and his sobs drowned out the roar of the waves around him. The winds whipped around him, rising and forming into a wordless call._

I am going mad _, he thought with a laugh._ It sounds almost like someone is calling my name.

 _He gazed up at the stars, looking for a pattern in the chaos. Distantly he heard the eerie cry again and thought,_ It does. It does sound like someone is calling for me.

_Andros…_

* * *

Sherlock sat up in bed, clutching his stomach and grimacing. He stumbled out of bed and fell to his knees in the tiny bathroom. He didn't bother turning on the light. He flipped up the toilet lid and sat on the floor, but knew that he would only be dry-heaving again. He hadn't eaten the evening before, despite the clinic nurse hovering over him, frowning.

Two weeks on, his body was clean and free of toxins, but the dreams were tearing through him. He couldn't remember them all and didn't want to. Pieces of the visions returned to him throughout the day but made no sense. In the hated group sessions (mandatory, they insisted), the doctors recommended keeping a journal to sort out his past life memories and work through any lingering issues that might have driven him to use substances.

Sherlock hauled himself off the tiles and turned the faucet on. The brutally cold water washed away the lingering nausea and snapped him out of the frenzied dream world.

As his doctors had explained it, the proximity of his soulmate combined with the sudden absence of drugs drove the synapses in Sherlock's brain wild. Sodding Mycroft had insisted on disclosing the brush with Molly to his _keepers_ at the clinic.

Every night his brain was on fire with fresh remembrances of the past. The sensations were making him ill, the smells, sounds and sights too potent. He couldn't control the sensory input when he was in the dream state. It was his waking sensitivity magnified a hundredfold. He tried to convey that to the therapist in the first meeting but the psychologist stubbornly repeated his usual coping strategies, and Sherlock stormed out in disgust.

Not having to see his brother was one upside of being at the clinic. No family visits were permitted except once per month. He supposed Mummy would come then, and there would be guilt.

Most days, Sherlock distracted himself from thoughts like that by deducing others at the clinic, determining what substance had brought them in, and what their family secrets were. The wealthy had the most boring secrets though, and the game was already growing stale.

Feeling more in control, Sherlock exited the loo and changed into a clean set of clothes. Another good thing about the clinic was that it had forced him to realize how much of his time he had been spending focused on scoring drugs rather than on ways he could acquire new cases. Sure, he had pursued cases, but in retrospect, he saw that his cocaine use- and his illegal activities while using- had been less discreet than he had realized.

Only the intervention of his brother had kept him from prison, and owing Mycroft for that stung.

He now had to find new ways to fill up his days when he didn't have a case, and the longing for stimulation, the never-ending itch, nagged at him.

Sherlock dropped to the floor and began his morning exercise routine. Push-ups, sit-ups, and then onto his baritsu. He had to improvise for that, lacking the right equipment, but the form was what mattered. He had been on his way to being a true master of the skill and he resolved to track down his old teacher in Chelsea to resume lessons when he made his way back to the city.

He pushed and sweated, flexed and grew stronger. The weakness fell away, and his tone returned. When Sherlock looked in the mirror, he found that with the black eye faded and his hair trimmed for the first time in a year, he saw someone he might actually be able to live with.

Until night fell, and the dreams returned, and he heard someone calling his name.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lexie for the beta!

He was gone by morning, and they wouldn't tell her where.

Molly left Sherlock and hurried through the rest of her shift happily. He was a mess, but he was brilliant and handsome under the bruises, and he sparked when they touched. Every cell in her body recognized that Sherlock Holmes was her soulmate.

She hummed "Walking on Sunshine" through the last post-mortem she assisted so loudly that even the chief pathologist stared at her.

"Sorry!" She couldn't stop grinning. "I met him. I met my match. It's complicated, but I'm just relieved. Happy. I can't explain it."

"Oh." Dr. Stamford smiled softly. "Was on cloud nine for days when I met Diane. Don't blame you one bit."

"Oh, you're married? You never mentioned her." Molly bent over the body to examine the opened chest.

Stamford's face dropped and Molly understood even before he spoke. "We lost her three years ago. Breast cancer. It was fast. A blessing in some ways."

"I'm really sorry." She studied the slashed thoracic tissue, and compared it to what she already knew of the deceased.

Mike nodded. "Another life, we'll be together again. As it was, so shall it be. Cause of death, Hooper?"

"It wasn't the great knifey thing that was stuck into his aorta?" Molly wrinkled her nose.

He laughed. "Most likely but it's a high profile case, and there's other wounds, so let's solidify the 'great knifey' theory before we commit."

They completed the post-mortem, and Molly was exhausted by the time she arrived home. She set her alarm early for the next day to give her extra time to see Sherlock before her shift the next day.

That night her dreams were in Technicolor, vivid in ways that should have let her feeling drained when she awoke. The fleeting moments that recurred in her dreams over the years came back in a rush and strung together with a new cohesion and brilliance.

She slept and she _remembered._

_She sat in the cramped laboratory and simply knew it was her home, the ecolé where she toiled, where she had earned her place despite being female and foreign. The room sang with energy, and she felt at home among the vials and beakers. She was surrounded by leather-bound journals filled with slanted handwriting and smeared spots of ink- data she'd collected with the help of her husband. She felt as though she was on the verge on some great and terrible discovery and that it could do harm if harnessed by the wrong hands. She worried that perhaps she should hide her research away for the time being, until she determined whether her colleagues could be trusted with the information. The power of the elements was not a toy; when would these men learn?_

The room was so clear to Molly she could spot the shards of glass in the corner where a broken beaker had been brushed aside , and see the particles of dust floating in the sunlight that streamed through the tiny window. That year, her other self's mind was heavy with worry, but in that one moment, she was safe and content. It was her place and she would return there to figure out what had to be done, as always. She was resolute.

Molly was still marveling at the familiar calculations in the yellowed journals when she woke up. Instead of feeling disoriented and groggy, she felt clear and alive and instantly aware of what she needed to do that day. She had broken through to a new level of understanding about a past life because of the previous day's meeting, which meant he _was_ the one: Sherlock was her soulmate.

She could barely stop grinning long enough to brush her teeth, which was why she was completely at a loss to arrive at his hospital room and find it deserted.

* * *

The nurse at the desk couldn't help her. "Transferred out to a private clinic," was her curt response. "That's what the chart says. No names or addresses, nothing for follow-up. No more'n that. Sorry. What's it to pathology, anyway?"

She couldn't think of a valid reply. "Um, nothing. We spoke briefly yesterday, I was just curious." She mentally scrambled for a way to get more info, but came up empty. Even if she got a hold of his brother's phone number on the chart, how likely would be willing to tell her where Sherlock was if he had transferred him so secretly?

She recalled the slithering charm of Mycroft Holmes and his cold eyes. He had known where his brother's soulmate worked all along and he hadn't bothered to inform Sherlock of the fact.

The message was clear.

Molly realized she was chewing on her lip and staring blankly at the nurse. "Thank you."

She glanced at the clock. Half an hour until her shift began, time she'd thought she would spend maybe holding hands with Sherlock and getting to know one another better. She slid her fingers into her sleeve and rubbed the skin where his name branded her.

Molly's eyes welled with tears and she ducked into the elevator. She pushed the buttons impatiently and paced back and forth until she got off on the top floor. She jogged to the stairwell, looking back to make sure she was unobserved when she opened the fire exit to the roof. She propped the door open with a folding chair so as not to trigger the fire alarm, and slipped outside.

Molly inhaled deeply and then slunk down onto the ground.

"Fuck, fuck _, fuck_. What the hell," she cried, wiping her eyes. She wished she smoked for a minute, because it seemed like the sort of thing one would enjoy in a moment like this. She wished Surya was working; she really needed to talk someone, because she felt like she was going crazy. In the last twenty four hours, her heart had been completely turned upside down, teased with what she'd always dreamed of, and had it cruelly yanked away.

Panic took of Molly and it cramped her belly. She crossed her arms over her stomach and rocked, soothing herself.

 _Do not lose it, do not lose it,_ she chanted inwardly. _Little Miss Perfect, that's what Surya calls you, because you can handle anything. You can handle this. You will think of something. Take a deep breathing. No, take ten._

She breathed, and massaged her temples. The air was crisp, and up high it smelled nice. The roof had become her special place not long after she started at Barts. Another student had shown it to her. It was originally a smokers' hideout, but all the students used it to get away sometimes when the job got too hard.

London was really beautiful from up there. She wished she could show Sherlock how incredible the city was once you stepped away from the grime and the violence and the tube and throngs.

 _We might be good together, once everything was sorted out. I think…we're_ supposed _to be._

She jumped up and paced, trying to come up with a plan of attack for handling the situation, and failing. Her frustration grew, and the minutes ticked by. She was due in the morgue soon but the prospect of burying herself among the dead was no longer the comfort it once was. Molly stood on the roof of Barts, watching the swarm of people below. Everyone was faceless, and her loneliness was never more apparent.

"Dammit, Sherlock, where are you?"

* * *

_Andros…_

I have gone mad.

_Andros huddled on the rock, the sharp edges prodding him into awareness of the cold spray once more, pulling him from the trance of his misery. He heard the sounds repeating, gruff utterances that bore resemblance to his name. He sat up shivering and listened._

_The waves rose higher around the rock in the sea, crashing and threatening to swallow him. The noise of the ocean drowned out all. He drew his long legs tighter against him but it was useless. The tall body he was so proud of was a hindrance now._

_He remembered learning to play the lyre, the musician educating him in trade for his scribe skills. His long limbs and elegant fingers moved beautifully over the instrument and the men and women watched him covetously. He did not watch them back, as none of them bore his matching mark, and his passion remained only for the learning. His father boasted that his son was more admired than the prince himself._

_Andros loved his father more than any son ever loved a sire, that day._

_But when the king took him for the rock, his father could say nothing. It was the way of things. His father had great cunning, but he was only one man, and the spring reaping was swift. To his great bitterness, his beloved father could not even look him in the eye as they took him in chains._

_Andros…Andros…_

Andros!

_A hoarse voice called through the mist. Through the night, over the waves, something moved._

_Andros peered through the dark of night, guided only by moonlight, and prayed he would not fall from his perch and be strangled by the chains. He leaned forward and finally, saw a bobbing yellow light._

_A wooden peak floated above the waves now, just below the weak light- the prow of a small boat._

_It was not his father after all, come to save him. It was not the king's men, come to put a merciful end to a slow, chilling death._

_It was a girl._

_As the boat moved over the choppy sea, nearer to his rock, there was only one small figure in what he saw was a crude fishing vessel. A thin arm lifted the lantern high, and the other arm grabbed the edge of the rocking boat to steady her. He saw long dark curls blowing in the wind, whipping around her face. Her face was obscured, but he saw her clothing was little more than rags. A length of rope wound about her waist._

_When the waters calmed, she bent and carefully grabbed an oar. Andros watched as she guided the boat over the remaining distance in the dark, the light leading the way._

_Andros did not believe in sea monsters but as a gentle wave tipped the boat toward his rock and the prow brushed Andros's foot, he almost believed in gods again. And when she leaned onto his rock and her roughened hand wrapped around his wrist, the pride of Andros was no more and the cold of the ocean fell from his bones. He felt warm all over for the first time since they chained him to the rock.  
_

" _Who are you?" he asked in wonder. "How came you here?"_

" _I saw you, Andros, though you didn't see me. You needed saving. And so I came." Her words carried the rough accent of the fishmongers' village. She smiled and a dimple formed in her cheek._

" _My name is Persa. I am yours, you are mine, and the sea will not be having you this night."_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lexie for the beta!

Molly sighed as she awoke. The warm light streaming through her bedroom window confused her and for a moment, she believed she was lying in her lover's arms on a rough blanket with the sun rising over them. They'd been in a cave somewhere and she felt stone scraping her back but she hadn't cared, no, she'd been deliriously happy. She flexed her feet and wiggled her toes to reassure herself that they were clean and clad in socks, and not bare and sandy as they were in her dream.

And oh, what a dream. Molly hummed as she showered, recalling bits and pieces of it. It felt like one of the true visions, but she hadn't had this particular one before. It was rather…detailed. Her previous dreams hadn't the same flavor of eroticism to them. With Sherlock off in a clinic for the past four weeks and out of touch, she hadn't expected the dreams to change and deepen like that.

There were new shades to familiar dreams, as well. She knew the old laboratory well, and the woman who experimented there, making discoveries. Sometimes with her husband, a handsome man with a strong nose and a high forehead. His steady dark-eyed gaze was comforting, even when he was sharp-voiced and challenging. He never let her be intellectually lazy. She found that he-her soulmate-functioned as a sort of anchor when the journeys and the dream became overwhelming.

Washing her hair in the shower, she wondered if Sherlock felt the same way, wherever he was.

And finding a remarkable scientist in her own past was a revelation that made Molly glow with pride. But equally exciting was the confirmation that other souls in the past visions were familiar in more commonplace ways.

They said that people often traveled in the same circles, in lives, even though they weren't soulmated, but there was little evidence to back it up.

But when she sunk into the dream of the French scientist, one evening, she saw her other self welcome a cheery Polish governess who taught the girls her native tongue, bringing her children over to visit. Her daughter was bouncing on her lap, while she chatted away with her guest, and it wasn't until the dream was fading away that she recognized the soul of Michael Stamford in the Polish woman's round face.

 _He taught my children, and now he teaches me_. Molly felt like crying when she understood.

An undying cycle.

She wondered if she had met Mike's wife in that life, since she never would in this one.

They had so little time on Earth. No matter how many lives they had, it was never enough. Every bone in her body told Molly to seek Sherlock out, but her medical training told her to leave him be.

_But what if he needs my support?_

_Then he can ask for it,_ she reasoned. _But he left and he hasn't called or sent word through anyone. It isn't prison._

Though she wanted to find him, Molly held back and pushed herself to focus on her training. She was nearing the end, and she didn't want to fall into complacency. It also occurred to her she'd become a rather bad friend and hadn't returned Surya's last phone call when she'd fallen into such a funk over Sherlock.

_Maybe Sherlock isn't the only one who needs to get sorted out. Oh hell._

And with that realization, Molly headed into work and made plans for lunch with her friend.

_Got so tangled up in the past I forgot about the present._

* * *

"Have you started using the dream journal yet?"

Sherlock stared blankly at his therapist. "I could swear I already answered this question."

She smiled slightly. "That was yesterday. And the day before. And possibly the day before that."

"I told you, it won't work. You keep trying to the _same old useless_ therapies on me. My mind is bleeding all over the place every night. You have no idea. A fucking journal isn't going to help me." Ignoring the clinic rules, Sherlock pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.

Sheila's eyebrows rose but she said nothing: no scolding about smoking in her office or even asking how he managed to get a cigarette when his entire packet should be held at the nurse's station at all times under lock and key. After six weeks, Sherlock's habits were very familiar to the clinic's staff.

Sheila stood, and crossed the room to close her office door. She locked it and then retreated to her chair. Dipping into her desk drawer, she pulled out a packet of Benson & Hedges. She lit up a cigarette of her own.

"Oh, are we bonding? Sharing a rule-breaking moment, us against the nursing staff?" Sherlock said mockingly. "Such an elementary tactic, Sheila. Really disappointed in you." He smoked furiously.

"Oh, I abandoned those tactics by the second week. Do you think you're special, Sherlock?" Sheila took a drag of her cigarette, closed her eyes and exhaled blissfully. "Do you honestly think you're the smartest man to ever waste his life snorting or shooting up? The only person who ever couldn't handle their soul dreams and overloaded their brain chemistry to prove it? I know you're a genius. You bloody prove it every day. But these therapies do work- even if they seem incredibly pedestrian and stupid to you. There are studies to back them up, and I would be more than happy to share the data and journals with you if you're interested." Sheila gestured with her cigarette as she spoke. "And yeah, you're smarter than the lot of us when it comes to crime and physics and ballistics; but I've seen a hundred _brilliant_ people like you come through these doors. Most of them come through a second time. And a third. Some of them I never see again because they OD first."

Ralph flashed through Sherlock's mind before he could stop the image. Ralph the chemistry student who had educated him on how cocaine could short-circuit the soul dreams and free him from the desire to be with his Margaret.

 _My Molly,_ he corrected himself.

Ralph who'd died the winter before in an abandoned house in Manchester. They didn't find his body for a week, but the last person to see him had been his dealer, so there was little mystery about the cause of death, even before the post-mortem results came in.

"Everyone thinks they're too smart, too good to do the legwork. At first." Sheila took a last drag of her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray she produced from a drawer. "So what's it going to be, Sherlock? Legwork now, or will I see you again six months after we discharge you in a few weeks?"

* * *

_With iron lever and hammer, she freed him from his shackles and Andros fell from his small rock perch onto her narrow boat. Persa stumbled backward, and the lantern flew from her hand into the deep, extinguishing their light._

Andros! _She cried out._

_Persa slid on the wet floor on her vessel, losing her way in the abrupt darkness. As she turned to find him, the waters rose under the boat and knocked her to the port- and over into the wave_ _s._

_Andros turned to see the shape of the girl rolling into a wave and without a thought for himself, his long arms reached out and caught her like a slippery fish._

_He grasped her tight into his arms and they fell to the floor of the rocking boat. Persa gasped against his chest, betrayed by the sea she loved so well. Andros held her against him, stroking her hair back_ _and feeling the warmth flow between them. The chill had sunk into his bones in the long night but with every touch, the stars seemed brighter._

_When she was standing again, the unpredictable waters were nothing to Persa and her vessel. With moon and stars to lead her, she guided them homeward. By the time the first pinpricks of sunrise touched the sky, they had reached the pebbled shore._

_Andros fell to his knees and kissed the sand like a drunken fool at a tidal festival._

_The girl smiled, but there was little time to spare. Persa pointed overhead, to the hilly cliffs that appeared sheer and impenetrable. She took Andros by the hand, drew him up, and showed him the way to her home._

_She led him past the coves where he had played as a child, beyond the cave where he witnessed the spring reaping of other young men of the rock. They picked their way over the paths, hugging the smooth-seeming cliff face until they turned a sharp corner-_

_-and nearly fell through an entryway into the side of the hill._

_The rising sun spilled light into the dark cave but Andros shivered, still soaked in his thin garb. Persa built a fire in the pit, and with the illumination, he saw the place was indeed her home. Crude drawings were etched into the walls, depicting a man, a woman and a child linking hands. A crate of fishing supplies lay along the wall, the hooks made of bone, the lures of tern feather. Hempen rope, frayed but usable, coiled around the lot. An old cloak was laid out by the fire atop a worn blanket. On each side of the entryway, he now realized, were clusters of sea roses and red valerian and daisies, flowers that grew wild in the fields west of the village and by the ocean. Their sweet scent tickled his nose, along with the smells of salt, sea, and smoke._

_Her earlier embrace had broken his chill, but pure heat rolled through Andros when Persa's hands pulled his vest over his head._

" _Soaked," the young woman muttered. "Those too." She tugged at his waist and he allowed her to strip the uncomfortably wet trousers from him in_ _a daze. She drew him down to kneel beside her on the blanket by the fire, pulling the threadbare cloak over him. She clasped his hand and smiled shyly._

Strange for her to be shy with my hand but not my clothing, _Andros thought. But it was no matter; his eyes met hers and he felt the wondrous connection again. Energy coursed from her arm into his and within minutes, he felt such an overwhelming flush that the cloak became stiflingly hot._

_Persa lifted his arm, exposing the skin above his wrist. She stroked the intricate pattern inlaid there, the one he was born with. The lines twisted over his flesh, interlacing like grapevines in the shape of a crown, pressed upon his arm. She bent her head, pressed her lips to his mark and shuddered. Persa looked up, tears shining in her dark eyes._

_She pushed up her ragged sleeve to the elbow, displaying herself proudly._

_The inky-black mark on her skin was identical to his own._

_A tear slid over her cheek, but her mouth curved in a smile. "I saw you. In the marketplace, by your father's side." Her voice was husky. "Saw your mark as you played the lyre, and I knew you were mine, though you were above me."_

_Andros laid his arm over Persa's, their marks held together. The heat burned between them anew. She gasped, her brown eyes delighted. His hand tightened around hers, and his mouth widened in a smile of his own._

" _Never above you. With you, always."_

" _Oh." The hoarseness in her voice began to fade. "It_ is _you." And then with a great laugh, she was in his arms._

_They were a tangle of sliding brown limbs as the sun rose. The fire died, but their touching kept them warm. They shared the bonding words of their people, those that cannot be unsaid and unheard. The vows were whispered between gentle kisses, hands pressed palm to palm. They were joined, bodies and souls as one._

* * *

Sherlock came awoke slowly, reluctant to pull out of the dream. The taste of her was on his lips, and the sound of a gull's cry rang in his ears still. He stretched his arms, and tucked them under his head. He couldn't remember the last time a soul dream had been so fluid and coherent, and so satisfying. He-

_Legwork._

His eyes snapped open and fell on the notebook by the side of his bed. Sherlock sat up, swung his legs over and hopped off the mattress. He padded over to his discarded trousers on the floor to locate his cigarettes and matches.

If he was going to be an obedient dog, it would be on his terms.

Sherlock smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he managed to capture every detail of the dream but in the end, he was satisfied it was as accurate as possible. He threw his pen down, disgusted with himself for doing what had been asked of him, but also strangely happy. He had accomplished something. He remembered Andros.

It seemed he had Andros's pride, and some of his abilities. That was intriguing. He had the urge to Google ancient papyrus preparation techniques to see if anything was familiar. Computer access was limited at the clinic, but there were supervised periods at a communal computer lab. He'd break into the lab later if he were bored enough.

But for now there was the meeting with Mycroft to deal with.

* * *

"Thanks for the care package, big brother. See you next week!" Sherlock moved to stand.

" _Sit down."_ Mycroft had only just arrived. Sherlock smirked, and settled in.

"You brought me low-tar?! What have I ever done to you?" Sherlock swore at the carton of cigarettes.

Mycroft rubbed his forehead. "I've also brought you an opportunity. Once you're discharged, if you're serious about continuing this consulting business, I'll arrange a connection with the Metropolitan Police. As long as you stay 100 percent clean."

"I can make my own connections." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"It'll take years for an unlicensed recovered drug addict to develop police connections. This is a shortcut. And their crime solve rate is abysmal this year."

"What do you want in return?"

"I want nothing in return. Your sobriety. Mother's happiness."

"And?" Sherlock stared. What was the missing piece? Mycroft always had an angle. He was distracting Sherlock from something. Mother was the emotional angle to distract from…what other emotional angle? What other one was there but Molly?

"Did you ever plan on telling me about Molly? _Really?_ Just between us brothers. _"_

"I would like to think so, but you were at rock bottom. I was doing her a favor, and believe it or not, you. If you had met your soul mate when you were intoxicated, you would have driven her away for good. I was looking after you, Sherlock."

"I can take care of myself. You're not my father, Mycroft."

Mycroft's eyes darkened. "Well, Father didn't take care of much when he was alive so that's hardly a basis for comparison. I have always taken care of things. When you got expelled from three schools, I found new ones. When you informed Mother of Father's indiscretions and she was unavailable for a time, I looked after you. You don't remember those things, Sherlock, because you were too busy making those messes that I had to clean up."

Sherlock stood. "See you in two weeks. No more low-tar. That's a violation of the Geneva Convention."

Mycroft lifted his chin. "She's being patient but she'll start searching for you soon, you know."

Sherlock looked back. He knew it wasn't Mother that Mycroft was referring to. He swallowed. "I assumed she would be looking. But she won't find me, will she."

"Not until you're ready for her to." Mycroft cleared his throat. "With her training completed soon, her position will remain at Barts. She'll be there. I'll be watching."

"As always, big brother."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major thanks to Lexie for the beta reading and artwork she's done for this story at the end of this chapter (also on her tumblr artbylexie), and as always big love to StrawberryPatty and Sempaiko for their everyday support.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for the lovely reviews of the story!

"And so then she said she wanted to get together and _talk_ \- you know what that means." Surya rolled her eyes. She twirled a cherry on the stem in her apple martini.

A tall young man with dark curly hair strode down the pavement outside the pub, laughing with his mates. Molly watched wistfully. _Not Sherlock._ She doubted he had ever been so carefree. She wondered if he had any friends at all. There were so many little details about him that she hadn't a clue about; little details that were in fact incredibly important.

" _Molly."_ She heard the irritation in Surya's normally mellow voice.

"Sorry! No, I heard you, Melissa wants to talk. Are you going to patch things up then?" Molly sipped her vodka tonic.

"Maybe. I dunno. She's lovely, and we have fun, but she can't handle my schedule. And I just can't be bothered with a fuss. You know. So close to finishing up and all."

Molly nodded, understanding. Another thought occurred to her. "Is it- I don't know if this is too personal to ask, I'm sorry if it is, but does it matter that she isn't your soul mate? She can't be, wrong name and all." She gestured to the delicately curved letters of the name "Maria" marking the inside of Surya's forearm.

Her friend shrugged. "It's different for me, Mols. Do you know how many women I've met named Maria? Sherlock was a fair sight easier for you to wait for. If I meet the right one, that's great, but…" She shrugged again, and smiled. "I want to have kids before I'm forty. I can't wait to meet the right Maria until I'm eighty. So I'm going to live my life and if I fall in love with a beautiful woman who makes me happy, I'm not going to fight it because of a name..or a delicious tingle that runs through _my whole body_ ," Surya added dramatically, running her palms down over her belly and thighs.

Molly laughed, her cheeks warm, and she threw her straw at her. Her description of her first meeting with Sherlock, and the spark of the soul marks touching, might have been over the top.

Surya threw the straw back at her. "Has he been in touch? Or the creepy brother?"

"No. But if he's in clinic, then that's not unexpected. And I think, with my studies, and his sobriety- as hard as it was to have him taken away right after finding him…maybe it was actually the right thing to do. Time apart to take care of things. If we were destined to meet, then we should again, right?" Molly trailed off. She chewed on her bottom lip. Her eyes sparkled, and she took another gulp of her drink.

Surya popped the garnish of her cocktail into her mouth. "It is the right thing to do, and you know it. And you have the dreams to keep you company some nights, you said. That is the one part that makes me a little jealous, I gotta admit. I don't think I'll ever remember more than a quick flash of a past dream without my soulmate. But on the positive side, I don't have your hassles either, and I think I prefer a happy waking world. Cheers."

She raised her drink with a grin, and Molly clinked her glass to hers with a matching smile.

* * *

That night, she thought she would dream again of the lovers in the cave as she had been for so many nights lately, but instead she found herself back at the French university, not in the laboratory but in a salon, taking tea.

_She sat by her husband in a hard wooden chair while he debated merrily with her teacher Henri, one of the few who had supported her experiments and lofty goals. Henri sat back, stroking his white mustache and beard, cheered by the exciting minds. Her love Pierre was not cowed by the respected scientist who came from such a long line of scholars, and the professor seemed delighted by it. She watched them argue, as great friends and peers did, and warmth flowed through every corner of her being._

_Her other self observed them and knew that something had begun that night when they sat in an informal circle, chatting as colleagues, and challenging each other's ideas about physics. Phosphorescence was of monumental concern to Henri; the infinite nature of it, the possibility of energy absorbed in one form being released into the cosmos as light seemed a miracle to him. And as he spoke, it became a miracle to her too. Less so to Pierre whose soul was pragmatic rather than poetic, but within the triangulation of their thoughts, hypotheses were born and new heights reached._

_It seemed almost inevitable then that she should lose them both within a few years of that historical peak. After you have reached the summit, there is only decline._

Molly felt wetness of her cheeks and an undefinable ache in her chest when she awoke. She scribbled a few lines in the notebook she had begun keeping by her bed. She would search for information as usual on the internet later, but now, she was too overwhelmed by the strangest sensation: desperately missing people she barely knew or had never met in this life.

* * *

"Your police contact information is all here. To be perused at your leisure, at your new flat. Mother insisted on the housing, by the way. I'm well aware you'd prefer to choose your own home, but she will not be satisfied unless she knows where her _child_ is living. If the flat's unacceptable, try to remember to forward the new address before disappearing. But it is a large place in London, paid for a full year already. A gift." Mycroft's mouth was pinched and his nose wrinkled more than usual. It appeared one of the new admits to the clinic had vomited in the foyer where they stood, and the staff hadn't done a thorough cleaning job. "Would you like to use my mobile now to call anyone, perhaps?"

"No. Cigarettes." Sherlock opened the exit door, and grabbed the packet of Marlboros from Mycroft's pocket. His own hands were empty, his small amount of belongings having already been moved from the clinic. He hopped off the stoop, and had his cigarette lit by another discharged resident waiting on the pavement for a taxi. Sherlock tipped his head back in bliss, the smoke curling in his mouth and nostrils.

He inhaled deeply, letting the flavor roll over his tongue. His mouth watered, and he relished the hit of nicotine. Some of the instantaneous effects were no doubt psychosomatic but it was delicious all the same. The sun soaked his face as he stood and slowly enjoyed the tobacco while Mycroft watched.

"Your first cigarette as a free _and_ sober man. Congratulations," Mycroft commented sardonically, leaning on his umbrella.

Sherlock sucked in the last of the smoke, exhaled, and dropped the butt to the ground, grinding it under his heel.

"And the last. I've quit." He ignored the tug of dependence, and stuffed the packet in the bin in front of the building. A long black car rolled up in front of them. A black-suited man jumped out of the vehicle and opened the passenger back door.

"Time to see your new home, brother. I believe you'll find it sufficient. It's on Baker Street."

* * *

"That was amazing. We've been sitting on that case file for two years. I thought Holmes was taking the piss about what you could do, but the son in law just confessed."

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "And we haven't even left the building yet, Mr. Lestrade. The evidence was all there in the folder, waiting to be deduced. Imagine if a real detective had been at the crime scene."

"It's Detective Inspector, actually." He crossed his arms. "And several _detectives_ were there. Working their arses off. Someone had to collect the evidence you just looked at."

Sherlock sneered. The idea of working regularly with slow-witted coppers was becoming more preposterous by the minute. "Look, if you-"

The silver-haired man held up his hand in surrender and smiled disarmingly. "I already said it was amazing. That not enough for you? Truth is, we could use a fresh eye, every now and again."

"Obviously," he replied loftily. "And I know people have to collect evidence. One of your staff has the deplorable habit of using their teeth to adjust their gloves, causing tearing and possible contamination." He displayed one photo of a hand holding a weapon, where a slight mark on a crime scene technician's gloved finger bore a suspicious resemblance to a bite. A second photo, from further away, showed the same technician moving a piece of evidence.

Lestrade stared at the photos. "That is…frightening, actually. I'll have a talk with him. I do mean that. Thank you."

It wasn't just the people collecting evidence that concerned Sherlock. In the folders of evidence he rifled through before choosing a few to impress D.I. Lestrade with, several bore the distinct stamps of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

And several of the most recent post-mortem reports held the gentle cursive signature of Molly Hooper.

His throat tightened at the sight of it.

He had been back in London for three weeks and he had still not told his soulmate where he was. And he didn't know why. Did he?

As he bid goodbye to Lestrade and hailed a taxi, he felt momentarily lost. He knew London geographically like no one else: the tunnels, the sewers, the alleys, the rooftops, the side streets. But when he slid onto the seat and the cabbie looked at him expectantly in the rearview mirror, his mind went blank.

He wondered if he had saturated his mind with chemicals for so long that he had fried some neurological pathways beyond repair. Was he too damaged for anything but the automated spewing of the knowledge he'd spent so long accumulating? What if he called out the address of Barts, and ran down to the morgue? What if he walked straight into the morgue, found his girl waiting for him, took her in his arms and kissed her until they melted together?

The cabbie cleared his throat pointedly. "Mate?"

Sherlock barked out, "221 Baker Street," and spent the rest of the ride home trying to delete from his mind the fantasy of finding Molly waiting for him in his bed when he got home.

* * *

_The sun was high in the sky before the lovers separated reluctantly to forage for food in Persa's meager supply._

" _What shall we do now? They'll never notice your bones aren't among those beneath the waters of rock." She fed him an olive from the clay bowl._

_After swallowing, he remarked, "And their monster broke my shackles, no doubt." He smiled wryly and kissed her palm. Warmth suffused her body. Andros cupped her cheek and kissed her breathless, before feeding her an olive in return. Persa laughed softly, eyes shining._

_Andros stroked her arm in thought as they sat by the remains of the fire. "We have your boat, your hooks, and my skill with the inks. We can go anywhere. We could stay here, but if the king hears tell of a ghost- or a_ fisherman _\- with my face on these coasts, a visit from his men will come soon."_

_Persa nodded. "I know. I have no fear of leaving this place behind. It was a cage as much as my home. After my parents- after they were lost- I had nothing but my dreams and the hope of you, and the stories I would tell myself." She looked away, her voice husky._

" _Poems and stories like the bards tell in the marketplace?" Intrigued, Andros set down the bowl. "Tell me."_

" _No, not half as clever. Just fancies. Little tales."_

" _I_ demand _you tell me," Andros said imperiously. "And since bards ply their gift for coin and I have none, I shall have to offer something else in exchange." He squinted as though deep in thought. "A kiss for every line. That is a sound offer, I should think. Do you accept?" Before she could respond, Andros took her in his arms and captured her lips. He stroked the crown-shaped lines of her soulmark as their mouths melded together, meeting again and again, and she shivered. Her hands slid over his arms and she lost count of the kisses._

_Persa was about to push her mate onto his back when he lifted his mouth from her and murmured, "An advance payment. A story, wife."_

_And so Persa laid in the circle of his arms, and told him tales of the adventures she imagined for herself on the nights when she was so lonely in the cliffs she thought she might go mad. She told him of the years spent hiding away from the hands and eyes of men after her parents were lost to a storm. In her cave by the sea, the girl grew to be a woman, as her longings and dreams of the past flourished._

_She conjured showers of gold and snake-haired women and lusty gods; magical crones who shared only one eye between them; evil-tongued prophets and heroes to thwart them with cleverness. In her dreams, winged horses took flight and every human had a fighting chance at survival, even when the gods plotted against them._

_Her fevered imagination created the impossible and her enthusiasm infected Andros. She told her tales, growing more animated as her reservations fell away and she saw the light in his eyes. The arrogant young man in the market whose cold beauty had intimidated her was gone, and in his place sat only her husband, her soulmate, embracing her dreams._

_Reaching the climax of the story, Persa punctuated the heroine's sword slice with the swinging of her arm against his chest. Andros laughed, and found he couldn't stop. His face was less perfectly handsome as it crinkled but she preferred it this way._

_She was contemplating how much he made her ache when she realized she heard voices in the distance._

_Her gut seized in fear. Persa jumped and clapped a hand over Andros' smiling mouth. He froze._

_She lifted a finger to her mouth silently. His eyes widened. He understood._

_She nudged Andros downward and he sat. Persa crept quietly to the entrance, her light form making no noise. Peeking out, she listened for a moment and then crawled back to him, whispering._

" _On the beach. They're making sure you were taken. Soldiers."_

_Andros's head snapped toward the entryway. He swallowed hard._

_She whispered again. "I know another way around. We can watch, to be certain they believe. But you must follow me carefully and stay down."_

_She led Andros down the eastern side of the cliffs, down a path so steep Andros turned green when he approached it. Persa gripped his hand and they tiptoed down the curved path, through a narrow tunnel, and back inside the lower caves where they were invisible again. They breathed easier then, out of sight._

_They eased along the wall, listening. They sat and waited for the men of the king as they near the beach near the rock of chains._

" _Gone."_

_The word carried on the wind. Other words were lost in the grumbling. Persa peered out._

_She heard the word "shackle" and saw a man with a spear speaking to a similarly dressed man and nodding. Their bodies were relaxed, and she heard one of them mention beer. Nothing she caught of the conversation suggested suspicion about the boy they had left to die on the rock the day before._

_And they were unconcerned with the older man who stood quietly on the beach behind them._

_He was taller than the soldiers but slim, his nose strong and proud. His robes, flapping in the wind, displayed the moderate wealth of a skilled merchant. His face suggested hawkish pride and such stubborn arrogance that even if Persa had not seen Andros by his side that day in the marketplace, she would know him at once as his father, Casso, the great scribe._

_The soldiers left him alone, trudging along the sand without a glance back._

_Casso's face was set in stone as he stared at the cold sea that had stolen his son._

_Persa drew back into the cave, grabbed Andros's arm and pushed him forward to look._

_Andros watched as his father took in the sacrificial rock where the chains still rattled, broken now. The man stood very still, his pale eyes locked on the isolated place where his son had died. He studied it calmly._

_After a long minute, the scribe simply turned and followed the path that the soldiers had taken up the beach. His stride did not falter._

_Bitter anger carved Andros' features into ugliness. Persa felt the force of his ire and grief inside, through their new connection._

_She slid her arms around his waist and pulled him back into the cave, soothing him with her warmth._

" _Not even a tear. 'Control, Andros. We're not animals, Andros. Pride, Andros, we are the best at what we do.' Sentiment is not useful, according to my father." Andros's hiss caught in his throat. His arms tightened around her. He buried his face in her hair. His voice was muffled when he spoke. "He wouldn't even look. When they came for me. His_ boasts _are what drew them to take me but when they collected me for the reaping, he couldn't even look at my face."_

_Persa smoothed her palms over his back. She couldn't wash away his sorrow or find the words. She'd been away from other people for so long, but she held him and instinctively the spark flowered between them, easing his despair. But within their bond, Andros understood and accepted her comfort. She felt his pain ease, though the ache didn't vanish entirely. His father's love and pride in him and his skills had mattered greatly. But healing would come with time._

_Andros straightened, and she felt him marvel at her. Persa smiled. He squeezed her hand.  
"We're free now. Choose our stars to navigate by. Where shall it be, my lady hero?"_

* * *

"My god, what an insane shit he is." Davison accosted Molly as she arrived at the morgue to begin work. "How does he get psych clearance?"

"Who is? A patient?" Molly fumbled with the pile and then gave up, dumping them on her desk.

"No, the skinny prat who came with the D.I. He's been working with New Scotland Yard for a few months. Have you not met him then? Look what the hell he left with the body!"

The outraged pathologist brandished in his grip a black riding crop.

Molly's mouth dropped open. "What? Is that- _?"_

"Stamford says he has _permission_ apparently. It's for the Met, for a bloody case. I've seen the detective fella do some weird shit but this really is something else. I need you to back me up on this when I talk to Mike."

"But it's for a case, you said- was he using that weapon _on_ the body?" Her eyes widened as the visual flooded her mind.

"Bruising pattern, he says. 'Let me know if they form within thirty minutes.' He left his mobile number. Can you believe the cheek?" Davison frowned at the tool in his hand and then cringed. "Oh fuck me, do you think he uses it for not just corpses? What kind of weird freaky sex stuff is the Met involved with?"

His mouth twisted in exaggerated horror, and Molly burst into laughter. Embarrassed, she clapped a hand over her mouth to smother her giggles. Davison's frown turned into a sheepish smile. He started to laugh in spite of himself.

They were still shaking in laughter a minute later when a deep voice carried through the morgue and into the office area where they stood, sending shivers down Molly's spine.

"I've forgotten my riding crop. You didn't by any chance bring it into the office in a rare show of efficiency, have you, Davison?"

Her stomach clenched and turned over and Molly worried for a few seconds that her afternoon meal might wind up on the tiled floor.

Davison straightened up, and hollered toward the front, "Yeah I've got it. Any reason why I should give it back?" He grinned toward Molly, expecting an answering smile but found her wide-eyed and shaking.

Molly slowly approached the entryway into the main morgue, knowing what she'd find before she turned the corner.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the center of the St. Barts morgue, tall and slim, but stronger than she had seen him last, almost five months before. The person she had left in his hospital bed had just come back from death, and looked like it.

The man before her was fifteen pounds heavier, with his hair trimmed to keep the curls from falling into his eyes. They fell over his head and brushed the royal blue scarf looped loosely around his neck. He wore his overcoat unbuttoned, and she could see that lean muscles beneath his shirt had replaced many of the painfully thin hollows from before. As she stepped through the doorway, he turned expectantly with brows raised and she knew the exact second he understood it was her and not Davison walking to him.

His skin paled but for the vivid spots of color on his cheeks. His lips parted and then closed again. Her chest ached with happiness to see how healthy and completely _clean_ he was, his gaze bright and pure, the blue-green irises unclouded with no bruises below to mar the flesh.

But the lingering questions made her eyes well with unshed tears.

"So. What sort of case requires beating a body with a riding crop, eh?"

Sherlock glared at Davison over her head. "Heard the laughing. Assumed it was one of your nurses. Stupid, making an assumption." His glare intensified.

"I only have one nurse friend that visits here, Holmes," Davison corrected. "My other friend is a respiratory technician."

" _Visits_ ," Sherlock scoffed.

"Sherlock," Molly said. "Don't. Please." Davison's sexual hobby wasn't their concern. His partners were aware of his non-monogamous ways, and her coworker's personal life was none of her concern.

"Wait, so you do know him?" The doctor was puzzled.

Sherlock stripped his gloves from his hands, shoved them in his pockets, and strode toward them. "Of course she knows me. I'm her soul mate. And I'll be taking her for a walk right now, as I've no desire to kiss her where you've shagged so many of your conquests."

* * *

In the elevator, Molly pressed the button to the top floor, and threw herself into his arms, sliding her arms under his coat before he could say a word.

"I didn't come back." Sherlock wrapped his arms around her. "I realize that you probably feel a good deal of anger toward me. My brother informed my mother of your existence and she's spent the last few months badgering me about contacting you and informing me of what would have been the proper course of action. I did want to contact you. But I felt other matters had to be attended to first."

"No, I actually agree. I hated it, but I do. Oh god, your mother knows about me..." Molly lifted her head up, and caressed his cheek. The elevator reached the top level, and the doors opened. She grabbed his hand and led him to the roof exit. "Alright, that's a step. Though- I am rather upset about you apparently running around with the Met the last few months, long enough for Davison to acquire a hatred for you! Everyone seeing you but me." She sighed. "How did I never see you?!" Molly grabbed the folding chair and opened the door, propping it with the chair. She shivered as the cool night air touched her bare arms.

"You didn't see me because I made certain I was aware of your work schedule, and I went there only rarely. You follow a pattern and you stick to it, and I am the best at deductions, of course." Sherlock smiled proudly. He slipped his coat off and stepped onto the roof. Molly stepped out behind him. "Though there was one close call, and there was always the chance of someone mentioning me- I accepted that risk. I didn't intend to stay away for long. I saw you once, almost a month ago. You were leaving with a woman with long black hair, dark eyes and a pink coat. She works here."

"That's Surya; she's one of my best mates. I can't believe you, you-shit!" Molly laughed, and then shivered. Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and she rubbed them. Sherlock draped his coat around her snugly and led her to a spot on the roof. With unspoken agreement, they sat and Molly leaned into him, tendrils of her hair blowing in the breeze across his chest.

* * *

Over them, the night sky stretched into infinity. She settled against her soulmate, marveling that he was here with her. The confusion of the last few months faded as she nestled into the crook of his arm. Stiff at first, Sherlock studied her curiously and then relaxed, pleased with the waves of contentment flowing through his inner connection to Molly. With her pressed so close to his body, interpreting human behavior and feelings was so much easier.

And contrary to everything he had ever feared, he didn't feel weak or like he was living in the past at all. The spectre of his parents' botched marriage receded further.

When he peered down at her, Molly's big brown eyes shining, Sherlock believed that he had hope for the future. He wanted her, in his flat, in his arms, laughing with him instead of that idiot from the morgue. He wanted her to be with him in his bed when he came from a case, and he wanted to be at the door when she came from Barts, to do…whatever it was she did when she came home. He wanted to find out. That was the exciting part. He needed more data.

Sensing his growing excitement in the spark of energy moving between them, Molly nuzzled his chest and slipped an arm across his body. She gazed up at the stars. "This is my favorite place, you know. It's always been comforting to me, to be able to look up. I can find my way through the stars. Since I was little."

"I never had much use for astronomy," Sherlock admitted. "I've deleted most specific information related to astronomy from my brain." He stroked her arm, his fingers finding her soul mark unerringly.

"Your loss," she teased. "Do you see that constellation- those stars there- and there- follow that curve down and up and around- and then down across. And then that star over there and there."

He frowned and shifted. The floor of the roof was growing cold under his legs. "Too complicated. I was under the impression that constellations were pictures that were _self-evident_ to ancients in the sky."

She laughed softly. "Yes, that one is a bit complex. I'll show you it on a computer later. It's called Andromeda. Do you remember it?"

He stilled. "I…it sounds familiar."

"Andromeda was a princess chained to a rock as a sacrifice, in mythology. Let's try another constellation that's much easier to see. The bright one there, right there, there and there- it looks like a large tilted W, actually."

Sherlock sat quietly for a moment. "Yes, I see it."

Molly slid her hand into his, warming her fingers. "That one is called Cassiopeia. Named after a queen. Andromeda was her daughter. Does the constellation remind you of anything?" She asked.

Sherlock turned to her. _Cassiopeia. Casso._ " I wasn't certain of how many of my dreams you shared when we were apart. There are countless lives. But it seems that one kept coming back to me, for some reason. The constellation looks like the mark that was our arms in that life." He smiled, remembering how Andros and Persa's arms had pressed together as they made love, their soul marks identical to the crown in the sky.

"Yes!" Molly said excitedly. His coat slid off her arms as she moved around. "You remember it- us- being together. Do you remember what happened after Andros and Persa left their shore?"

"They never went back, they never saw Casso again. They sailed northeast, likely close to the modern-day Lebanese or Syrian coast. I've performed calculations. They-"

"We fished. Andros was a poor learner at first, but eventually they caught enough to trade for inks and treated papyrus."

The memories flowed back. Sherlock cradled her face, and he leaned in, his forehead pressed to Molly's. "Andros wrote down Persa's tales. Her heroism, and the stories she created in her dreams."

"And then the story became a myth carried to and known in Greece. Though apparently some details were changed by others over the years, like gender. But people remembered Persa and Andros in some form." Molly smiled, and a tear rolled down her cheek. "The stories were passed on. Generations, centuries."

Sherlock's breath mingled with hers. He pulled her in closer and he hauled his coat up over her shoulders again. The thought of her wrapped in his clothes, his scent, pleased him.

His throat tightened. He felt the old panic rise up in at the loss of emotional control but he pushed it away. Her courage ran through him.

"You slew the monster. You saved me." He tilted his head and her lips brushed his. The heat of her want rushed through his body and then they were sprawling on his coat on the roof, with their mouths wild against each other and their hands roaming.

Molly gasped and laughed as he nibbled her neck. "Silly man. We saved each other."

* * *

Another hour was spent on the rooftop in soft whispers and exploratory kisses before Molly convinced Sherlock they'd be more comfortable back at her flat.

The next morning, in the light of day, away from stars and stories, there were other considerations.

"So, do you want to get a coffee, and then maybe a film?"

"Do you think that's necessary?" Sherlock pouted.

"Yes. I would like to have an actual date." In Molly's head, she fretted but knew Surya would rightfully give her hell if she backed down on asking for what she'd been complaining about missing out on all these months.

Sherlock towered over her with his best wounded puppy look. But she refused to budge, and they agreed to meet that night for a real date after work. He walked with her back to Barts. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him goodbye, and purred when he turned the chaste peck on the lips into a five minute snog against a wall.

"I see congratulations are in order. Ah, but no plans to cohabitate. Taking it slow. Yes, that's wise with Sherlock so recently out of- well, that's a private affair."

"Mycroft." Sherlock uttered the name as a curse. "I don't need a ride and I haven't been arrested. Why are you here?"

"The rooftop was hardly discreet." His brother affected a relaxed pose, tapping his umbrella tip on the ground, but Molly knew better by now. He was needling Sherlock. "Neither is this public display. Is the new bond giving you too much enthusiasm or is this a fetish you managed to keep hidden? I'm honestly curious."

"Mycroft!" This time it was Molly, her face pink. "You apologize. That's hardly decent. And- _oh."_

"What?"

A wave of déjà vu hit Molly. She remembered the sensation as she stood in the lab with Mike Stamford and felt time overlapping as she realized that she recognized his soul in the face of the happy Polish governess from Marie's life.

She felt that eeriness anew, the recognition of a soul out of time in a face she already knew. This occurrence lacked the simple joy of that first time.

"I know you," she said dumbly.

Mycroft's brow wrinkled. "Yes, Miss Hooper?"

"No, I mean I _know_ you. From before."

"Molly." Sherlock's arm encircled her waist. "Explain."

"I understand now, I think," she told Mycroft. "You're Casso- _aren't_ _you?"_

* * *

"Ah." Mycroft's lips formed a straight line.

Sherlock shook his head, a stubborn line forming between his eyes. It couldn't be. But he felt the truth ringing in Molly's recognition. The memories of the past were there, but he so often avoided the thought of the scribe, of the father who had abandoned Andros to his fate. Rage rose in him.

"It was _you_. You left- you left Andros to die on the rock. It was Casso's boasts that put him there and then he just walked away. I should have known it was you. _Typical."_

"Oh don't be a child, Sherlock. It wasn't me, it was Casso. If you were to be held accountable for everything your past self did, you wouldn't ever sleep at night. And I remember some of your lives better than you do, dear brother. "

"Oh please." But he wondered. Mycroft had met his soul match in uni and had had enriched access to his distant past for twenty years.

"It was Casso's greatest regret. Andros was his pride and joy; he loved him more than anything. He would have died in his place if he could have. He had dreams of moving beyond that village, of creating his own legacy and with his and his son's skills, he could accomplish it. But then the king came and took him, and Casso was left with nothing," Mycroft said simply. His voice was calm and his poise controlled, but his eyes were stormy. "Twenty-five years of building a business to be passed on to _absolutely no one_ when he died of a broken heart a few months later. Millennia have passed and it's still one of his- my- greatest failures. I failed to protect you."

Sherlock felt Molly's tears before he saw them streaming down her face. "You failed. She didn't."

"What?" The one word slipped out between gritted teeth.

" _I. didn't. die ._ Not then. My soul mate saved me. Cut me from the rock. There was no sacrifice. No watery grave."

Mycroft stared in shock. The handle slipped from his hand, and his umbrella landed on the pavement with a thud. The noise shook him from his stupor and he awkwardly scrambled to pick it up. "Andros… lived?"

"Right, so you're off the hook for that one. He and his soul mate Persa lived happily ever after. They're in stories. We'll send you a link. I think we're done here."

"Oh. Fine." Mycroft appeared to gather himself, nodding and checking his messages on his mobile.

But to Sherlock, the icy veneer that his brother wore was clearly flawed- the tremor in his right hand, and the graceless scraping of the umbrella and the off-rhythm steps his brother took to the car.

"I don't know your brother well, but he seems shook up. I'm sorry I blurted it out like that. I didn't think- it just surprised me, the memory coming on so fast." Molly pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes. "You didn't recognize his soul."

"I try not to think about Casso." Andros's father generally inspired irritation in him.

_That should have told you he was Mycroft,_ his brain chided him.

"We travel in the same soul circles often, isn't that what they say?" He tried to recall where he'd read it. Must've deleted the title. "We're bound to run into familiar souls everywhere we go."

"Are you going to avoid the subject with Mycroft?" He felt her disapproval in their growing bond.

"No. Why should I?"

"Really?!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nothing's going to change. He's been acting like he's my father my entire life. It makes too much sense. This reincarnation business really is a pain in the arse sometimes. Hardly worth the trouble."

Molly poked him in the belly with her finger and he kissed her breathless in retaliation. His hand slid down around her arm to caress the place where his name branded her, a sprawling constellation of letters. She stroked the tidier soul mark on his arm in turn, following with her fingertips the path laid out until the energy sizzled between them.

After a long heated moment, Molly pulled away.

"So, our first date tonight. Being mired in all this past business so much lately. It's rather exciting, not knowing what's going to happen, don't you think?"

"Well, _you_ don't know what's going to happen. Give me sufficient data, and I'll be able to deduce everything precisely."

Incensed, Molly yelped, and Sherlock laughed before leaning in for one more kiss goodbye.

* * *

_**Epilogue - one year later  
** _

"Oh, did I tell you, darling, finally someone's renting C! A married couple. Not a large space but they haven't got children so it's cozy and perfect for them."

"That's fantastic, Mrs. Hudson. They don't mind about the mold?" Molly poured a cup of tea for her guest and herself before sitting down.

"A service came out, and did wonders about that. Can't ever tell there was a problem." Mrs. Hudson beamed, and helped herself to a biscuit.

Molly smiled, hoping the new couple in 221C weren't too noisy or in the habit of cooking odd-smelling foods. It was difficult enough adjusting to her new home without dealing with inconsiderate neighbors.

The flat at Baker Street had been her home only for a month, and she was still settling in. Negotiating living with Sherlock Holmes was a daunting task. He might be her soul mate but he was a nightmare of a flatmate. They had finally settled on buying a second refrigerator for his experiments, a small used one where he could keep his questionable items and where they would not be mistaken for dinner ingredients.

Ever again.

Heavens knew she loved Sherlock and she was going to marry him, but after the Day of the Toe, he had slept on the sofa for a week. She had only let him return to bed _that_ quickly because he had caught her at a weak moment and given her an outstanding back massage.

Life with Sherlock Holmes as her soul mate was never dull, she could grant that. Molly glanced at her watch. If only he wasn't always so damn late for tea.

"Excuse me a minute." Molly popped over to the window and peered out. Down below, a taxi pulled up. But instead of Sherlock, a fair-haired man jumped out of the vehicle and looked up at the building.

Disappointed, Molly pulled back. "Oh it's not him. Sherlock's case is keeping him late again."

"Not to worry, dear, I'll keep you company. He's a busy sort. The new renters are coming by, anyhow."

"Is that them? Or one of them." Molly watched as the man approached the door beneath the window she stood at.

"Oh goodness, I don't know. I haven't given them a key yet." Mrs. Hudson set down her teacup and wiped her fingers on a napkin. "Come have a look!"

Molly followed the landlady down the stairs out of curiosity. Before the man on the other side could even knock, Mrs. Hudson opened the door happily.

"John! Didn't bring the missus today?"

"No, Mary's at her sister's book club." The greying-blond man smiled and nodded politely as he spotted Molly hovering behind the older woman. "I thought I'd get the key so we can start moving-in tomorrow."

Molly felt the hairs of the back of her neck stand up, and a sense of the uncanny roll through her, the waking overlapping of time that she hadn't experienced in almost a year.

"Sure, sure, come in! Oh this is Molly Hooper, she lives in B with her young man- and that'll be him, coming down the way." Mrs. Hudson waved through the door, and Molly spotted Sherlock jogging across the street. He was texting as soon as his feet hit the pavement, and she could see his smug grin, the one that told her he had solved the case.

"Sherlock, come here, meet your new neighbor."

"Must I?" He grimaced.

"Oh don't be like that," Mrs. Hudson scolded.

"No, you should meet him." Molly slipped her hand into Sherlock's. He kissed her briefly on the lips. "This is John, he's moving into 221C with his wife, Mary."

"John Watson." He extended a hand to her fiancé.

Molly held her breath, hoping Sherlock would see what she saw.

_Henri!_

"Ah. An army surgeon, I see." He shook the proffered hand and Molly saw his eyes flick over the other man's fingers.

"I was, yes." John grinned.

_In this life,_ Molly thought. _That wasn't your field of science before._

"Invalided home from Afghanistan. Though going by the state of your tan lines and your ring, I'd say you've recovered nicely and your soul-match marriage occurred after your military service. Within a few months, I'd say."

"Yes, I met Mary not long after I got back to London. Tan lines- you could tell that by tan lines? That's amazing."

Sherlock's expression remained cool but she sensed his pleasure at being appreciated for his skill. She remembered wondering so many months ago if Sherlock had any friends and finding out, much to her chagrin, that her suspicion that he did not was correct.

Hope blossomed inside her.

Sherlock tilted his head questioningly toward her. She smiled and ducked her head.

Mrs. Hudson shooed the group into her flat and she set her kettle to boil to welcome John while the new man quizzed Sherlock on the business of consulting the Met.

Sherlock quickly turned the conversation to ballistics, and a questionnaire regarding John's qualifications in the area of entry and exit wounds.

Molly listened to their chatter, eyes darting between them, while she felt the surreal sense wash over her anew. She remembered what she had learned of the universe from a teacher she greatly admired in another life:

_Infinity, and the possibility of energy absorbed in one form being released into the cosmos as light. One energy becomes another. It was ever a miracle, and it still is._

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love playing with the idea of wild myths being based in true stories, so that's why I made Perseus and Andromeda real people, gender-swapped with the monsters all human.
> 
> The French lifetime is of course the Curies, Marie and Pierre, and their colleague Henri Becquerel, with whom they shared the Nobel Prize in Physics. Pierre died when he was only 46 when he was run over by a horse-drawn cart and his skull was fractured, much as I described Sherlock sensing early in the story in his dream. While I've based everything about these people on historical fact, I've used my imagination when it comes to feelings of course. There isn't a great deal of information about the personal relationship between Becquerel and the Curies, but Marie was his doctoral student and they worked together for a long time.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed the story. Thank you for reading!


End file.
